Freak Like Me
by lDLETEEN
Summary: He's a tortured soul and she has no soul, but they say true love conquers all. AU: Violate.
1. 1: Welcome To The Neighbourhood

**The boring author's note before we begin: obviously, I do not own AHS. A bit of information: this is a little off-plot, so neither Tate nor Violet are dead at the moment. The massacre never happened. It is set in present time. I have sort of swapped Tate + Violet's lives around just to be different. I hope you enjoy + don't be shy with reviews/questions.**

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Tate Langdon shuffled miserably into his new bedroom and sat on the bare mattress, surveying the room. Boxes were carelessly distributed and this lack of organisation bothered him. He sighed, disgruntled; he hated change. He never wanted to move here and he certainly didn't want to move here on _her_ terms. Who was she to make decisions for him? Tate frowned as he pictured her face in his mind, hatred flowing through his veins.

His father's new whore. _He has a new bitch every week, _he sneered internally. _This will all be a waste of time._ Tate's father did not go by name, only Doctor Langdon or, mainly in Tate's case, Sir. Doctor Langdon was a psychologist who worked from home. He had cheated on his wife with one of his ex-patients and now they were engaged. Her name was Lucy but Tate called her The Home Wrecker. It was her idea to up sticks and move to L.A. Tate hated the idea even more because it came from her.

The mess around him bore too much, so Tate stood up and crouched beside the nearest cardboard box. He felt in the back pocket of his jeans and produced a shiny pocket knife with a blood red handle. He flipped up the blade and sliced through the tape on the box. He grabbed an armful of the books he discovered and carried them to the book shelf in one of the dank corners of the room. Firstly, he placed them all in a random order, spines facing outwards, in order to judge their size. He then shuffled them around until they all sat in size order, from largest to smallest. He repeated this task until he had emptied the box. He traced his fingers lightly along their spines; some leather-bound, some paperback, some so papery and worn he dared never to read them again in case they tore. He never stuck to a particular genre of reading as he enjoyed anything that provided an escape from his reality. Classic English literature, biographies of long-dead celebrities, nature journals... He was sure the Bible was in there somewhere too.

An hour or two later, Tate had successfully managed to completely unpack his things and everything was neat and orderly. If his brain and life had to be a mess, he could at least keep a clean bedroom. He gathered the torn cardboard under his arm and hopped down the mahogany staircase. He wondered if it was real mahogany or if it was a cheap alternative to give the house 'character'. He unlocked the front door and walked down the driveway to the trash can. He lifted the tin lid and dropped the cardboard in. As he replaced the lid he noticed movement in the yard next door. For some reason, he had never noticed how different his neighbour's house was to his own. The entire street was full of cookie cutter houses, each identical to the next – typical, suburban L.A. homes. But this one was so incredibly distinguished he had no clue how he'd missed it before. It was a grand, early-twenties-looking manor. Everything was completely accurate to the time – right down to the window panes. Tate let out a low whistle which caught the attention of a figure in the front garden. Tate diverted his attention to them and he noticed it was a young girl, around his age, perhaps a year or so younger. She had long, dirty blonde hair and a passive expression. She wore a baggy, ill-fitting green jumper and maroon tights with some battered leather boots. She had a cigarette balanced between her lips and didn't break eye contact once. Tate surveyed her and offered her a small nod. He cleared his throat to speak to her but she had already put the cigarette back in its packet and retreated inside. Tate frowned slightly and slumped up the front porch to his new home. _Welcome to the neighbourhood, Tate, you bastard, _he thought bitterly.


	2. 2: Lack Of Understanding

**Warning: sensitive content, may be triggering. Please don't read if it will make you uncomfortable. You have been warned.**

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Monday came around all too quickly and it was time for school. Luckily, Tate had only joined a week or so into the new semester, so he hadn't missed much. He was up before the sun and had showered, then dressed himself in a pair of dark jeans, a pale button-up shirt and a mustard yellow jumper. He shoved his feet into his trusty Converse and walked begrudgingly down the stairs. Mornings were his favourite, because neither his father nor Lucy would be stirring for a long while yet. Doctor Langdon's practice didn't start until after two, as most of his patients were 'troubled adolescents', so he tried to work around school times.

Tate sat at the dining table, not bothering to switch on a light. The house was silent; not a creak or shift was heard. The house must have been very recently built. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about how terrible his day was inevitably going to be. His father's words echoed in his mind: "Think positively and things will go your way. Be a pessimistic bastard and no one will ever like you." _Wise words from a qualified shrink, _Tate thought, rolling his eyes. It wasn't that he didn't get on with other people; it was more that he preferred to be on his own and nobody understood that. Deep down, although he would hardly ever admit it to himself, Tate was just looking for someone to understand him. _People are so wrapped up in themselves that they miss what other people are going through._

Before he knew it, it was time to leave. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, Tate skulked out of the house, slamming the door particularly loudly. It was a dull morning; the sun had not long risen yet it still wasn't cold. He walked leisurely out of his front gate and made a right turn down the street. He noticed a girl a few metres ahead, shoulders hunched and hair whipping behind her like a lion's mane. He recognised the ill-matching outfit and old boots and decided it was the girl from next door. For some reason he found himself watching her the entire way to school, until he lost her in the crowd of L.A. beauty queens and high school jocks.

His classes passed by in a blur and Tate found himself almost disappointed when he heard the final bell. School sucked ass, sure, but going home was worse. He recalled the helpful receptionist mentioning that the library was open until eight for after-school studying. Grasping his chance for a few more hours' solitude, Tate headed to the school library and sat himself in the farthest corner of the room. The people were few and far between in here, but that was fine by Tate. He hadn't made any friends yet but he didn't expect people to be lining up to make acquaintances with him. He leant forward and pressed his forehead against the cool, harsh plastic of the desk. After exhaling a few times he felt the moisture of his breath pool on the table top, so he sat up to find the neighbour girl sitting across from him, arms folded, surveying him. "You live next door to me, right?" She surprised him by speaking so bluntly. He nodded and flattened his hair against his forehead.  
"Thought so." She concluded and proceeded to open the sketchbook in front of her, balancing a pencil carefully on one of her fingertips. When neither of them said anything, she spoke again. "Are you the doctor's son?"  
Tate furrowed his brows slightly. "Yes, how did you know that?"  
The girl shrugged and held her pencil properly, not making eye contact. She began to draw circles on her page, one after the other, until the paper was covered in circles.  
"Are you one of his patients?" Tate spoke again. For some reason he couldn't quite place, he wanted to keep talking to this mysterious, moody girl. She looked up at him and he gave her a half-smile.  
"Would that be so ridiculous?" She raised her eyebrows and closed her sketchbook, sliding the pencil in the spiral binding.  
"No, I just -" He stopped abruptly as she stood from her chair and flounced from the library.

Tate eventually returned home a little after eight-thirty and was greeted by his father and Lucy groping in the middle of the kitchen. He made a disgusted face and edged around them to reach the staircase. "Where the hell have you been?" his father demanded, speaking over Lucy's shoulder as she giggled into his ear.  
"School, obviously," Tate muttered.  
"What was that?" his father's voice was calm but he could hear the threat beneath it.  
"I said I was at school. Sir." He mumbled the last part under his breath. He didn't like to be degraded enough to have to call his own father 'Sir'.  
"Just get lost, Tate." Doctor Langdon ended their conversation and began nibbling on Lucy's earlobe instead. Inhaling deeply, Tate stomped up the stairs and locked himself in his bedroom. He didn't like to be stressed like this. He paced the room in the hopes of calming himself down but with no such luck. Defeated, he stepped into his tiny bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet above the sink. He felt around the top shelf until he felt the smooth metal on his fingertips. He retrieved the razor blade and shut the bathroom door behind him, making sure to lock it. He rolled up his left sleeve and laid the blade across the skin of his wrist; ghostly scars already marred his pale skin. Taking a deep breath, he dragged the blade in a smooth, careful line across his forearm, air escaping through his teeth at the initial pain. He watched as spots of blood were illuminated crimson against the harsh white of the porcelain sink. _That's enough,_ he chided himself mentally. _Don't let him make you resort to this. _Taking the flannel from the cabinet, he ran it under the cold faucet and held it to the wound. The water stung his flesh as it absorbed the flow of blood. When it had stopped bleeding, he rolled his sleeve down and washed the blade, putting it back where he found it. God, how he wished someone would get him out of here. He wanted someone to understand. Tate was never a needy boy, always so independent, but he lacked an understanding relationship with anyone. His mother had gone awol and was M.I.A. somewhere, his father was a pretentious, aggressive asshole and Lucy was just a home-wrecking slut. He had no one and that's exactly how he felt.


	3. 3: Violet

The week passed without any more excitement. For Violet Harmon, however, tensions had been rising.

"I'm not seeing that fucking shrink," Violet spat at her mother. "You can drag me by my hair and I still won't go." She eyed the glass of amber liquid in her mother's hand, her face slack from too much alcohol already. "If anyone should be seeing a psychiatrist, it should be you. When's the last time you didn't have a glass of something in your hand?" Violet shook her head in disgust and walked away. She climbed the stairs and sat on the rug in the middle of her bedroom. The walls were dark purple, indigo almost, with black stencils dotted around the walls. It was dark and mysterious and she liked it. Clothes were strewn about on the hardwood floor and books were stacked in precarious columns on every available surface. Violet closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It felt like the world was caving in around her, constantly threatening to take her with it. She hadn't always been this way. Neither of them had. Her mother... She was troubled. She had lost one child in a car accident. Violet was just the disappointment left over.

She got up and leant against the window pane, watching the street outside. Her eyes flickered to the house on the left: the doctor's house. She knew she should go. She needed help before it was too late. But who the fuck was that whiskey-chugging bitch to tell her what she should do with her life? Violet frowned at her reflection in the window. Average, completely average. She was boring, even. Boring hair, boring face, no boobs and fat piled in all the wrong places. She had friends, sure, but they rarely wanted to see her lately. Depression – a word she rarely let herself think about – had caught up with her and affected the few friendships she had. Boys were never interested. Violet liked to pretend she wasn't bothered anyway, but what girl wouldn't feel shit that boys found her unattractive? Unable to bear her reflection any longer, she moved away from the window and lay on her bed.

_Maybe one session... Just one..._ She considered. _What harm could it do?_ She'd been referred to therapists before, but had always bunked off when trusted to go alone. Her mother didn't really care and that is what bothered Violet the most. Her mother just wanted her to take her problems elsewhere so she could drink her own away. Willing to pay a shrink five hundred bucks an hour but won't even give up the alcohol. Violet snorted. She turned on her side and forced herself into an uncomfortable slumber, knowing full well she had no choice but to spend her Saturday morning at a psychiatrist's house.

Violet woke to the sound of her mother's vomit hitting the basin of the toilet. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence so she ignored it and padded in to the bathroom. Avoiding her reflection in the mirror, she doused her face with cold water and rested her palms against the shiny counter surface. She caught a glimpse of the fading cuts on the inside of her wrist. It was bittersweet for her when they had healed; the lack of fresh wounds signified she was in control of herself, yet it also foreshadowed the collapse of her willpower. She shook her head and left the bathroom before temptation could take over.

Pulling on a floral dress, oversized yellow-knit cardigan, a pair of grey knee-high socks and her trusty old boots, Violet combed her fingers through her hair to tame it. She then brushed her teeth quickly and headed downstairs, secretly hoping her mother might die from throwing up last night's whiskey. It was surprisingly dark for 10am; Violet guessed there was a storm on the way as it was so humid. She contemplated breakfast but her stomach lurched at the thought of food. She could almost feel herself gain weight at the thought of eating. Instead, she downed a glass of ice cold water and slipped out of the back door. She sulked round the side of the house to the front of her yard and pulled out her packet of cigarettes. Pressing one between her lips, she lit it and took a deep drag, exhaling blue-ish smoke into the air. Although preoccupied with her smoke, Violet couldn't stop thinking about what she was going to face next door. Ultimately, she found herself wondering if the doctor's son would be around.

She took the last drag on her cigarette and stumped it out on the fence post, flicking it into her mother's rose bush. She had long since stopped tending to it but Violet felt a small flicker of satisfaction doing it anyway. She slipped out of the gate and trudged up her neighbour's driveway, stepping up the porch and ringing the doorbell. A young woman with long blonde hair and horrendous brown roots answered the door. "Yeah?" she said rudely.  
"Doctor Langdon?" Violet enquired, adopting the same blunt tone.  
The woman's face broke into a fake, polite smile. "Oh! Of course! My mistake, I'm ever so sorry honey." Violet sneered mentally at the pet name. This woman was barely a few years older than herself. _Don't start playing 'mother' with me._ The woman stepped aside to let her in. "Wait _right_ here and I'll go grab him for you." She chirped with too much enthusiasm then skipped away down the hall. Violet closed the door behind her and surveyed the hall with her eyes. A typical, newly-built house was all she could take from it; nothing interesting, no character. She sighed and rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand when she sensed someone's eyes on her. She looked up slowly and caught a glimpse of the doctor's son. He was wearing cotton pyjama pants and a long-sleeved white shirt that hugged him in all the right ways. Violet felt herself looking for far longer than necessary and so gave him a look as if to say "What the fuck are you looking at?" to cover her embarrassment. The boy just raised his eyebrows and continued into the next room.

Footsteps came from her left and a reasonably attractive man approached her. "Hi, you must be Violet." He shook her hand gently. He was much more genuine than the other woman. Violet nodded with an uneasy smile on her face. Why did she agree to this? _No going back now. _"Follow me through to my office." Doctor Langdon led the way to a more luxuriously decorated room that almost felt separate from the rest of the house. There were dark, wooden bookcases lining each wall, stuffed with psychology books and journals and files. There was a huge mahogany desk with a high-backed leather chair behind it, along with a plush leather couch in front of it. Doctor Langdon took his place behind his desk and gestured for her to sit, to which she complied. "So, I don't have much information about you, Miss Harmon..." he began, shuffling some papers on his desk. "I just have the referral from your mother." Violet rolled her eyes, which did not go unnoticed. "Do you and your mother not get on, Violet?"  
"Understatement." She muttered.  
"Do you want to elaborate?" he probed.  
"I'm not here to talk about her, am I? I don't want to talk about her."  
Doctor Langdon assessed her and nodded quietly for a few seconds. "Yes. Yes, that's right. Okay, tell me, Violet, what _do_ you want to talk about?"  
Violet frowned. "Aren't you supposed to ask me generic questions about my past and then give me the 'I understand' bullshit?" she spat.  
Doctor Langdon surprised her by chuckling. "I could do that, if you wanted. But that wouldn't benefit either of us, would it? I will ask you one thing though. Why do you think you are here?"  
Violet chewed the skin on her bottom lip. "Isn't it obvious? I'm clearly very fucked up."  
"Is that what you think?"  
"Why else would my mother be paying you so much to listen to my shit?"  
"Maybe she cares?" Doctor Langdon sat back in his seat.  
Violet snorted. "Good one, doc. She cares jack shit about anybody. She just wants me out of her hair this morning so she can continue with her hangover in peace. Next question."  
"Do you think you need help, Violet?"  
She paused. She had to be real with him and she knew it. He wasn't a bad person. Maybe he could really help. She swallowed hard and forced out some rare truths about herself. "I need to get out of here."  
"Where is 'here'? This house? This neighbourhood? " he asked softly, quickly jotting notes on a piece of paper.  
"No..." she shook her head. "I mean like... Here." She tapped her temple with her finger. "My head. It swallows me up. It screams at me. I say and do things I regret. I'm a horrible person and I don't even mean to be." She stopped talking suddenly, realising she had exposed too much.  
"If it's any consolation, Violet, I don't think you're a horrible person at all. That's based on first impressions. And first impressions are everything, you know." He waited for a response but Violet refused to talk. "Do you have many friends, Violet?" Again, she gave no answer and the rest of the session went on much the same way. Ten minutes before the end, Doctor Langdon stood from his chair. "I think that's it for today, Violet. I sense you don't want to talk. That's okay because you can say whatever you want, in your own time. I think it would be a really good idea if we met again on..." he glanced down at his schedule, running his finger down the dates on the page. "Wednesday? I can do straight after school. Three-thirty. I'd really like it if you came?" He was giving her an option. Well, a false sense of having an option. Violet knew she had to, so she reluctantly nodded and took the appointment card from his hand. He smiled a reassuring smile and gestured for her to exit the door of the office. "I'll show you out." They walked in silence to the front door of the house. Violet looked up at Doctor Langdon.  
"Thanks, doc." She mumbled and took one last glance behind her before walking out, spotting the doctor's son watching them from behind the corner. She swore she saw him wink at her, but couldn't be sure; nonetheless, she turned away with the hint of a smile on her face.


	4. 4: Kissma Ass

Once again, another dreary week of school had begun at Westfield High. Monday morning fatigue affected everybody, but Violet found she was more lethargic than usual. She trudged into the library for her study period and seated herself at the empty table beside the nature section. She reached down into her bag and pulled out various notebooks and pencils; when she looked up she had been joined by none other than the doctor's son.

She held eye contact with him but said nothing. She didn't know if he was going to bring up Saturday morning... Violet was already planning ways to shrug off the inevitable personal questions that would follow. What kind of professional shrink works from home anyway? Wasn't there a confidentiality agreement? Violet frowned, annoyed.  
"You were at my house," Tate stated casually, raising his eyebrows and concentrating on arranging his papers into a neat pile.  
"Correct," Violet replied. "Good observation skills."  
A smile played on Tate's lips. "So you are a patient of my dad's?"  
"I really don't want to talk about it with a stranger." Violet cut to the chase.  
He nodded. "I get that, but isn't my dad essentially a stranger to you?"  
Violet rolled her eyes. "Yeah, smart ass. You don't look anything like him," she observed.  
"Thank fucking God." That was all Tate managed to say before the librarian stormed over to their table to tell them to stop talking, as it was a _library_ for God's sake. When her back was turned, Violet gave her the middle finger and Tate broke out into a grin. She tore a sheet of paper out of her notebook and scrawled a message on it, then shoved it across the table to Tate.

_Name?_

Tate picked up his pencil and wrote his reply carefully.

_Kissma Ass. You?_

Violet read it quickly and snorted out loud. Such a childish joke, but she wasn't expecting such light-hearted humour from him. She appreciated the normality.

_No way. That's my name too! (Kidding. Obviously.) Violet Harmon. Give me your real name._

Tate mulled her name over in his head. _Violet..._ He liked the sound of it. It was exactly how he thought of her. A deep shade of purple; so much to be discovered. He smiled to himself and spoke aloud instead. "Tate."  
"I think I like Kissma better," Violet joked, smiling with her teeth – a rarity.  
"Your handwriting is terrible," Tate said simply, folding their note into a small, neat square and slipping it in his book.  
Violet scowled. "Who was that blonde chick?"  
"My dad's whore."  
She filled her cheeks with air and let it escape through her lips. "Rough. She seems like she'd fuck anything with a pulse."  
Tate grinned. "Yeah, she probably would." He smiled wider when Violet returned his laughter. The bell rang all too soon, signifying the end of the period. The duo gathered their things and exited the library together. Tate felt excited at their close proximity; he walked as close beside her as social boundaries would allow – not quite touching but he could still feel the heat from her body. There was something about this girl that he couldn't get enough of.  
"I don't feel like going to math today," Violet piped up and slowed her pace. Tate slowed with her and looked down at her face. "I'm skipping. You coming?" She was already reaching in her bag for her packet of cigarettes.  
Tate considered it and with regret, shook his head. "I don't think I'm brave enough to cut school yet. Being the new kid and all." He joked and smiled at her.  
Violet shrugged. "Suit yourself." With that she flounced away, lighting her cigarette as she went.

Violet returned home just as some kids from school started walking down her street. She sat watching from her bedroom window; there was something amusing about the look that everyone gave her house. It was nicknamed _The Murder House. _In fact, the nickname was what had made her fall in love with the property when she and her mother first moved in. She had researched endlessly into the gruesome deaths that had occurred right where she was living. She knew she should probably be disgusted, perhaps even afraid, but she wasn't. Violet embraced all things extraordinary and extraordinary this house was.

Violet's eyes followed the kids down the street, until she spotted Tate walking up the sidewalk and turning into his driveway. She watched him reluctantly climb his porch and pause before going inside. She could sense how much he wished he didn't have to go inside; she felt the same way every single day. Sighing, she hopped off the window sill and sat in front of her computer to finish the history assignment she'd been putting off for the last week.

She finally finished as it was growing dark outside. She could hear her mother's grunting and snoring across the hall; she made a disgusted face but decided it was better that she slept than drank her liver into oblivion. Slipping on her boots, Violet crept down the stairs and slipped out of the front door. Before she knew what she was doing, she hopped the fence into Tate's yard and edged around the side of the house. All the lights were on except one room, which she just knew was his bedroom. She smirked to herself at how dramatic he was; he _would_ be the one sitting in the dark, just to soak up his problems. She knew, because she was exactly the same. She tiptoed into his back yard and strained her eyes as she scoured the ground for something to get his attention. She found some gravelly stones behind a potted plant. Violet grabbed a handful and took a few steps back, judging her distance. Then she threw the rocks at Tate's window, one by one.

Tate frowned and jumped as handfuls of stones hit his bedroom window. He got up from his bed and peered out into the darkness of his yard. He could barely make out a figure standing a few feet from his house. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see that it was Violet. Fighting the urge to laugh, he pushed open his window and leant out.  
"Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?" Violet called dramatically, placing her hand on her heart in a theatrical manner. Tate just grinned.  
"What are you doing, Violet?"  
"Come out with me," she demanded, shivering slightly. She had forgotten to don a jacket before she left the house. Without another word, Tate swung his legs out of the window and began to lower himself down the whole two storeys. "Don't be dumb, just use the door!" Violet exclaimed.  
"Nah, I got this," Tate mumbled and let himself drop, landing perfectly on his feet. "Just like a cat." He grinned cockily. Violet rolled her eyes.  
"Let's go somewhere," she suggested, grabbing his arm and dragging him with her.

They walked for a while until they got to the tiny beach, tucked away behind their estate. The term 'beach' was used loosely, as it was just a small patch of dirty sand where people dumped their trash. Violet walked ahead and found an old rocking chair, still intact, then sat down on it, rocking back and forth. Tate followed, smiling at her and perching on the gritty sand. He noticed the goosebumps forming up and down her arms, so shrugged off his own jacket. "Here," he broke the silence and handed the jacket to her.  
Violet took it gratefully and shoved her arms inside quickly, but not fast enough for Tate not to notice the cuts on her wrists. He chewed the inside of his cheek, daring himself to talk to her about it. He needed her to know that he understood – he understood why she did it, he understood how it helped. Most of all, he wanted her to know he did it too and that she wasn't alone. Lost in his internal debate, he didn't notice she had moved until their knees touched and he saw she was sat right in front of him, cross-legged.  
"Can I ask you something?" she almost whispered. Tate swallowed and nodded, wide-eyed. "Do you ever feel like you're completely fucking nuts?"  
Tate laughed ironically. "Only every day."  
Violet looked down and focused on her fingers, poking holes in the sand.  
"I do it too, you know." Tate spoke, causing her to look at him quizzically.  
"What?"  
Acting on impulse, Tate slowly reached forward and took her hand in his palm. He used the other hand to gently push up the sleeve of his jacket, exposing her fragile wrist. She flinched in panic but he looked at her calmly as he turned her hand over, surveying the puckered red lines across her skin. Violet could feel her heart beating a thousand miles per second; her deepest, darkest secret was exposed to someone she barely knew. Was he disgusted? Was he judging her? Would he tell his father?  
"I understand," he whispered, trailing his fingers lightly over the recent wounds. "I do it too. I understand," he repeated. Violet felt a lump form in her throat. Nobody ever said they understood her. Before she could speak, Tate rolled up his own sleeve and showed her his cuts and scars. "See. I understand, Violet. I need you to know that I get it and you aren't alone."  
Violet looked away, uncomfortable about the intense look in his eyes. She wasn't used to such deep emotion. She gently removed her hand from his grasp and rolled down her sleeve. She couldn't decide if he looked hurt or not. Her heart fluttered the tiniest bit as she looked down at his wrist again. Without another thought, she leant forward and tenderly kissed the cuts on his arm, then leant up and kissed his cheek. She thanked him without words and stood up, beckoning him to follow. "Best get back, hadn't we?"


	5. 5: Pressure

**Potentially more triggers, just to warn you. Also, your reviews are sweet, so thank you.**

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Violet crept back into her house, the muffled snores of her mother still audible from her room upstairs. She sighed sadly and sat at the breakfast counter. Mulling over her thoughts, she felt tears stinging her eyes. _Get a fucking grip! _She screamed mentally. _Don't you dare cry. Don't you dare! _She sucked in a large breath, hoping to suck the tears back in too. What had she done? Exposed herself to a near stranger? What was she thinking? Violet couldn't help thinking about the cuts on Tate's own skin. She felt a sadness grow in her stomach; she couldn't think about him doing that to himself too. He seemed so sweet and genuine; he didn't deserve that kind of self inflicted pain.

She banged her fist against the counter. _Life is so fucking cruel, _she thought with disgust as she pictured her drunken mother slumped over the toilet bowl, those bitches at school who never left her alone and, worst of all, Tate, slumped on the ground with a blade in his hand. There was a sudden movement and Violet's eyes darted up to see a tall, attractive man with dark hair, thick eyebrows and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. She quickly wiped away the tears that had accidentally fallen down her cheeks. The man spoke: "Poor little girl, what are you crying about?" There was no true sympathy in his words. Violet just scowled at him.  
"Fuck off, Chad."  
"Well that's no way to speak to a house guest," Chad smirked and walked around the counter to the refrigerator, which he opened and began to search through. "I'm only trying to help."  
"You're hardly a house guest, are you?" Violet spat. "Now get out before I send you away." She hopped off the stool and headed for the staircase. Chad closed the fridge and faced her.  
"Fine," he shrugged and in a second, he was gone. Violet muttered obscenities under her breath, knowing he was probably still around to hear them and trudged upstairs to her bedroom where she collapsed on her bed and fell asleep in her clothes.

Tate awoke on Tuesday morning feeling like he'd been hit with a ton of bricks. He sat up in his bed cautiously, unsure of the pain he might be in. He winced in pain as he swung his legs around and stood up, padding to his bathroom. He didn't dare switch on the light; he simply washed his face and ignored the stinging in his lip. He dressed in his baggiest jumper – grey, with some little-known ice hockey team logo on the front, although he didn't really care for ice hockey – a pair of black jeans and his worn down Converse. He made no more effort and tried not to limp the whole way to school.

Tate was early, there were practically no kids around yet, but Violet was earlier. He spotted her sitting on a wall opposite the school property, her trademark cigarette settled delicately between her two fingers. Her eyes followed him as he approached her and rested his back against the wall. She took a long drag of her cigarette and let the smoke escape through her nostrils before speaking. "What happened to you?" she motioned towards his swollen lip.  
Tate tensed up. "Got into a fight with some... Dude." He lied, swallowing. Then his tone turned teasing. "You should see him, though. He's way worse off."  
"Liar," Violet said, taking the last inhale of her cigarette and flicking the butt into the middle of the road. She hopped down off the wall with little grace and stood beside him. She was shorter than him, so she had to look up to look at his face. "Who did it?"  
Tate looked down at her and offered her a crooked smile. "Can't tell, it's a secret." He put his finger to his lips. Violet sensed he wouldn't tell her, not yet, so she swallowed the rest of her concerns and chose to forget about it for now. Checking the time on the gold-coloured watch on her wrist, she retrieved her cigarette packet from her back and slipped out another. "Want one?" she offered.  
Tate shook his head. "That's a bad habit. You'll kill yourself."  
"Plenty of other things could kill me," she shrugged. "Could've been hit by a car on the way here. Could've had an unexpected heart attack in my sleep." She took a few silent drags of her cigarette, mulling something over in her head. "Do you ever wonder what it's like to die?"  
"I don't want to talk about dying," Tate murmured. _Especially not you, _his inner voice finished for him. Violet nodded and threw her cigarette to the ground, squashing it with the toe of her boot. Without another word, she crossed the street – without looking both ways – and disappeared inside the school building. Tate stood and watched her leave, fascinated by all that was Violet.

There was a buzz about the air for the rest of the week in Westfield High, as Travis Wanderley was throwing his annual pool party. Travis wasn't a jock but he had friends in all the right places, so he was considered one of the 'popular' kids at school. He threw a pool party every year and invited everyone, without exception. It was safe to say Travis was an exceptional douche bag, but he tried to include everyone nonetheless.

Violet and Tate sat together at lunch on Friday afternoon. The cafeteria was louder than ever, with everyone getting hyped up for 'the party of the year'. Violet scoffed and rolled her eyes, which made Tate smile as it was so typical of her. "Are you going? To the party, I mean." He enquired.  
Violet looked at him like he was stupid. "Are you kidding? I've never attended one of his lame ass parties and I don't intend to start now." She passed a shiny red apple from hand to hand, over and over.  
"I don't know, it could be... Okay." He eyed Violet and smirked at her reaction. "We could just go and get drunk?" he suggested.  
Violet nodded. "True." She placed the apple on the table and her eyes turned playful. "Did you say 'we'? Who said I'd go with you, new meat?"  
"You know you'd go with me," Tate retorted. "It would be an _honour_ for you to go with me."  
Violet raised her eyebrows. "Oh, would it? I don't know, I'd have to think about it." Tate could see the smile playing on her lips and it made him smile wider. Were they flirting? Was she flirting with him? _Why are you even thinking about it? _Inner-Tate asked smugly. When he snapped out of his internal conversation, he watched Violet scribble something on a piece of paper.  
"Email me. I don't do texting." She feigned a look of disgust. Tate grinned and nodded. _Of course she doesn't. _Leaving her apple untouched on the table, Violet trotted away, secretly thrilled at the prospect of spending more time with Tate, even if it was at a lame party.

Later that night, after putting her mother to bed, Violet immersed herself in one of her many depressing books. Tonight she had opted to read her favourite selection of Sylvia Plath poetry, as she wasn't stereotypical in the slightest. A ping from her laptop signified a new email, so she set her book aside and slid the computer closer to her. The email had no subject and the body simply read:

_So... How about that party?_

Violet smiled and rolled her eyes at the screen. Tate. She quickly tapped back a reply and hit send.

_You never give up do you? What makes you think I want to spend my Saturday night with you?_

She didn't receive a reply even an hour later. Violet found she was too distracted to read poetry anymore, so instead stood and gingerly opened her closet. She didn't have anything even remotely appropriate for a party. The sheer volume of girls there that would judge her made her shudder. Why was she even considering going? Tate was probably joking. The invitation Travis had thrown at her reared its ugly head in the trash can, mocking her. She was jolted from her thoughts by the phone ringing; she bolted down the stairs and picked it up off the holder before it woke her mother. "Hello?" she half-whispered into the receiver.  
"Hi, is that Violet?" a male voice enquired.  
"Who's calling?"  
"Violet, it's Doctor Langdon. You never showed up for our appointment on Wednesday. Are you okay?"  
Violet bit her lip; she had completely forgotten about her therapy appointment. "Shit, I'm sorry doc. Slipped my mind." She didn't sound sorry at all.  
"That's okay, I suppose. I really would like to meet with you soon, how does tomorrow sound?"  
"I really can't do tomorrow doc, I have... Plans." Violet held back on the details. Would her therapist approve of his psychotic patient making plans with his son?  
Doctor Langdon sighed, frustrated. He obviously didn't have time for teenage problems. "Sunday, Violet, please. No excuses. Two o'clock. I'm a busy man." With that, he hung up. Violet sneered and put the phone back on the holder, sticking her tongue out at it childishly.  
"Motherfucker," she muttered under her breath. She climbed the stairs and checked her laptop again. Tate had finally replied and she found herself breathing a sigh of relief that she didn't know she was waiting to give.

_I don't really care because you don't have a choice. We're going to that fucking party and we're going to get really drunk.  
Also, I'd kind of like to spend my Saturday with you, so... Suck it up._

Violet swallowed and tried to ignore the butterflies rattling around in her empty stomach. He wanted to spend his Saturday with her. He actually _wanted _to? An overwhelming feeling of pressure swept over her. Now she had to _impress _him. She groaned out loud. This was such a teenage girl problem that she never thought she'd have to face.

On her tiptoes, she crept into her mother's bedroom and opened her closet. Shoved to the back were tons of beautiful, pretty dresses that her mother never wore anymore. In fact, her mother rarely wore anything but a dingy old nightgown and a threadbare, kimono-style robe. Violet rifled through the pile silently and extracted the only Violet-esque dress she could find. She slipped back into her bedroom and prepared to do some heavy customisation.

Saturday rolled around and while Tate was in bed, poking the bruises around his ribs, Violet was fretting. She stripped down to her underwear and stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She prodded her stomach and thighs with her fingers, holding back tears. "How can anyone be so ugly and fat all at once?" she said out loud to her reflection. She felt the urge seep into her veins... All those urges she had been repressing for weeks. The urges even her mother didn't know about. She knew her mom knew she cut herself, but she was always too drunk to offer a comment. But this was something Violet really did try not to do. She shuffled to her bathroom and lifted the lid of the toilet. She hovered above it for a while, battling her conscience and her desire. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd eaten anything properly. Closing her eyes, she succumbed to the urges that threatened to break her. She ran the tap sharply, stuck her fingers down her throat and tried not to think about the bitter taste of bile in her mouth.

A few hours later, Tate hastily showered and tugged on some dark jeans – skinnier than usual – and one of his light-coloured, button-up shirts. He threw on a suit-type blazer jacket and quickly dried his mess of blonde curls. He listened out for his father moving around downstairs; it was quiet so he assumed he was busy working in his office. Tate was pretty sure he didn't care if he was gone, as long as he didn't disturb him. He shoved his keys in his back pocket and went quietly down the stairs, slipping a small bottle of gin in the waistband of his jeans and creeping out of the front door.

He walked leisurely up to Violet's front door. He'd never been in this house before, but he knew there were rumours flying around all over town that some horrific shit had gone down in here. It intrigued him slightly and also made him laugh – of course Violet would live in the Murder House. He rang the doorbell and heard rushed footsteps coming to the door instantly. Violet poked her head around the door and hissed: "You'll wake my fucking mom, douche bag!" Then her face softened, although her palms grew sweaty, at the sight of him. "You look nice." She approved with a small smile.  
Tate ducked his head and pretended to be bashful. "You're too kind. Are you ready?"  
With a deep breath, she nodded and pulled the door open properly. Tate was sure his jaw was hanging open when he took in her appearance: she was wearing a deep purple dress – appropriate – that hugged her in all the right places, but she had cut it much shorter than it was probably intended to be. She had a thick belt wrapped around her waist which accentuated her hips and waist and the neckline was distractingly low. Her legs were bare and smooth and on her feet she wore her old leather boots. Tate smiled at that little detail. She was never normal. Violet gulped as she watched him assess her and, ultimately, judge everything. She wasn't scared of spiders, she wasn't scared of living in a house where people had been murdered and she wasn't even scared about dying. But one thing she was scared of was being judged.  
"You look..." he was at a loss of words, as his vocabulary slipped his mind whilst he surveyed her body, which was far better than he could ever have imagined. Instead, he let out a low whistle. "Great. Fantastic. You scrub up well." He joked. Violet just rolled her eyes and stepped outside, closing the door carefully behind her.  
"Nah, I just threw this crap on," she lied. "Let's go to this stupid fucking party, then, since you were so desperate to spend time with me." She teased and looked at him from the corner of her eye.  
He shrugged nonchalantly. "What can I say, you're irresistible." Then they walked the three blocks to Travis' house, side by side.


	6. 6: Travis

The sun was just setting and the L.A. air was warm and breezy. Tate and Violet approached Travis' house, which was embellished out front with the usual party decor. The side gate was open and they could hear music and chatter coming from the impossibly large back yard. They rounded the corner and saw all the teensy-weensy girls in their tiny bikinis with their massive fake boobs flouncing around in Travis' swimming pool, with the boys ogling their asses shamelessly. Violet looked to Tate with raised eyebrows. "Do you see why I didn't want to come now?"

No one particularly noticed their arrival, which was fine by them, so they made their way to the kitchen through the sliding glass doors and grabbed a plastic red cup filled with some unknown mix of alcohol. Tate sniffed it gingerly before looking at Violet, who had already downed the cup and was wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. He laughed and chugged his, too. They grabbed two more cups and went to sit outside.

Travis saw them and came over, being a good party host. "Hey, glad you could make it, blah blah," he rattled, his speech slurred ever so slightly. He looked Violet up and down lustfully. "You look sexy as shit," he wiggled his eyebrows. "Wanna dance with me, baby?"  
Violet patted his shoulder condescendingly. "I'll pass. Thanks, though." She grabbed Tate's wrist and they found two wooden sun loungers to sit on, not too close to the pool. "What a creep," she laughed, taking a gulp of her drink. Tate sensed the undertone of nerves.  
"Don't worry about him, he won't hurt you," Tate promised.  
"I know," she smiled. "I can handle myself." She stopped talking and watched the commotion in the pool; girls squealing as muscled jocks hoisted them up by their three-inch-waists and chucked them into the pool. She felt her self esteem taking a tumble further down the drain and so drained the rest of her cup.  
"Hey, slow down with that or I'll be carrying you home," Tate chided. Violet just shrugged and patted her dress as if she had pockets, looking for her cigarettes.  
"Fuck," she cursed. "I left my cigarettes at home."  
"You don't need them," Tate said seriously. "I don't like it when you smoke."  
Violet screwed her face up in mockery. "Ooh, since when do you suddenly care?" She got up from her sun lounger and slipped back inside Travis' house. Tate guessed she was going for another drink. He sat back and watched a tall, tan guy – presumably a member of the football team – grinding on some bleach blonde Barbie. It was such a stereotypical high school party, it hurt.

Ten minutes or so passed and Violet had not yet returned. Tate casually sauntered inside the house and looked around for her. She wasn't in the kitchen and the sitting room was filled with drunken teenagers, hormones racing and tongues down each other's throats. Tate started to ascend the stairs in his search for Violet. Where could she have gone? She didn't know anybody else here. His barely intoxicated mind began to run away with him so he bounded the last few steps quickly and started down the hallway.

That was when he heard her voice. His heart began to pound as her struggling was matched with the sounds of a male. He crept down the hallway, following the sounds and stopping outside the end door. "Get the _fuck_ away from me, you creep!" he heard her spit and shove whoever it was away from her.  
"Come here, you little slut," he replied. _Travis? _Tate's nostrils flared as he felt adrenaline course through his veins. "Who's going to stop me doing what I want? Your freaky little boyfriend? I don't think so." He was so exponentially drunk, it was embarrassing. Tate wrapped his hand around the door knob, ready to burst in and bust that cunt's kneecaps, when he heard a sickening crack and a thump on the ground.

Tate turned the handle and crashed through the door, fearing the worst, but finding Travis in a bloody heap on the ground and Violet with a baseball bat in her hand, breathing heavily. She looked at him with wide eyes – however, she didn't look at him with fear. There was something else there, something carnal and primitive. Something Tate didn't recognise nor did he expect. "Violet?" he said quietly, calmly, the way you would speak to a wounded animal to let them know you didn't mean harm. "Violet, are you okay?" he edged towards her with one arm out in front of him.

Suddenly, she dropped the baseball bat to the floor which made Tate wince in surprise. He relaxed slightly now that the weapon was out of her hands. "What happened..." he trailed off, his eyes focusing on Travis' unmoving body on the ground. _Fuck, she's killed him, _he screamed inside. _She killed that fucker._ He could see the blood oozing from the gash in his head, pooling around his body. That girl sure knew how to hit.  
"He tried to touch me," Violet spoke hoarsely, emotionless. "So I hit him."  
"Violet, come on, let's go," he slowly took her hand and in one swift move, picked the baseball bat up off the ground. "We need to go now." He pulled her out of the room, down the stairs and smuggled her out onto the street with no protests. The party continued and nobody was the wiser to the body that was lying upstairs.

Tate guided her the three blocks home and sighed, resigned, as he realised he would have to try and sneak her into his house. There was no way she would be staying alone tonight. He freed her hand momentarily and fished his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the door quietly and praying to every God out there that his father wasn't awake. He brought Violet inside and closed and locked the door virtually silently. They ascended the stairs and Tate gently pushed her into his bedroom, closing the door behind them with a barely audible click. He stowed the baseball bat beneath his bed and stood in front of Violet, who still hadn't said a word, but was watching his every move with that same wide-eyed expression. Tate noticed the hardness had left her eyes. "Violet?" he whispered, crouching slightly to meet her eyes.  
"Tate, I just killed Travis." She spoke the words slowly, deliberately and without remorse.  
"He tried to hurt you," he attempted to make excuses for her and he didn't know why. "You acted in self defence."  
She was already shaking her head. "No, Tate. I took him upstairs. I was just going to fuck him but then I snapped and he got angry so I hit him." She searched his eyes, begging for something, some kind of reaction. "Tate, I just fucking killed him and I'm not even sorry about it."  
Tate swallowed the word vomit that was threatening to come up and just crushed her to his chest; this tiny, fierce little girl with a fucked up mind... She'd killed someone, _murdered_ them, yet all he wanted to do was hold her and protect her. _I guess you're kinda fucked up too, huh? _Inner-Tate remarked.

He knew she was crying but he knew also she'd rather die than him comment on it, so he guided her to his bed and sat her down on it. He crouched in front of her and lifted each leg in turn and rested it on his knee, unlacing her boots and slipping them off, placing them neatly at the foot of the bed. "Lie down," he said softly, but cautiously. She complied and lay back, hoping the tears streaming down her cheeks made him think she regretted her actions. She didn't regret one single thing. Tate toed off his own shoes and lay down awkwardly beside her. However he had envisioned his night ending, it certainly wasn't with a beautiful murderer in his bed. She rolled on to her side and looked at his profile; his mess of blonde curls that fell into his eyes, which were impossibly dark brown, almost black sometimes; his lips that were in a permanent, perfect little pout. She imagined the dimples that sliced his cheeks whenever he smiled, really smiled. He was a fucked up kid, but he had a soul, unlike her. How unfair of her to drag him into this. She frowned as he turned to face her. He reached forward and smoothed the wrinkles between her eyebrows with his thumb. "Don't worry about it now," he whispered. "Nobody will hurt you. Sleep now. I won't let anything happen to you." His words were sweet and genuine and entwined with a promise that could be likened to that of a blood oath. She closed her eyes and let sleep envelop her, wishing the depths of hell would swallow her up and she would never have to wake to the consequences.

* * *

**I don't even intend to update this much. I'm usually very lazy. Well, this all suddenly took an interesting turn, didn't it? Your reviews inspire me - also, never be afraid to make suggestions. I probably need them. **


	7. 7: Confessions

Tate awoke as the sun was rising and lay watching Violet sleep. He was painfully uncomfortable, with his torso bent at a strange angle that didn't feel right, but he daren't move in case he woke her. She was sprawled out across most of his tiny, single-person bed, arm draped casually across his middle. He studied how relaxed and peaceful she looked in her slumber; she looked like a fragile little girl, not the murderous adolescent she had revealed last night.

With the reminder of last night's events, the baseball bat stowed beneath his bed suddenly felt like a huge, rattling weight. Why did he even take it? He had complicated the whole thing by removing the weapon. Now they looked suspicious. Why didn't he just tell Violet to claim it was self defence? Tate screwed his face up in regret. _So fucking stupid. _He cast his eyes down again to Violet's sleeping form and sighed, contemplating what to do with this fucked up girl.

She began to stir, a frown rippling her pale forehead. The hand that was resting across his body grabbed a fistful of his shirt, holding on for dear life. After a few whimpers and groans, her eyelids fluttered open and fear was in her dark eyes. She surveyed his face with caution, not knowing how he would react to her after having the night to mull things over. "Tate..." she whispered, her voice thick with sleep.  
"Violet, I fucked everything up," he blurted out. This statement caused her to sit bolt upright and stare at him in disbelief. "I took the bat. I took the bat from the house and it's under my bed. I made the whole thing look sketchy when it could have been so simple... Self defence, you wouldn't get sent down for that... But now... _Murder, _it's murder and my fingerprints are on the murder weapon. I fucked it..." he babbled on and on with himself, whilst Violet swallowed down the bile she felt creeping up her throat. She felt sick to her stomach. Tate actually thought he had done something wrong. She, Violet Harmon, potential psychopath and definite killer, had murdered someone without repent and Tate was beating himself up about trying to hide the weapon.  
"Are you fucking kidding me? You're blaming yourself?" she asked incredulously. "Tate, do you not realise what I did? I deserve to be locked up for this. But you... Trying to cover up for me..." she trailed off, trying to phrase it properly. "That means a lot. I don't deserve a single ounce of your forgiveness."  
Tate chewed his bottom lip in deep thought, furrowing his brows. He ignored her speech and tried to resolve the situation in the only way he knew how: attempting to be logical and organised. "We need to go to the police. We need to go right now and this is what we're going to do. _Listen _to me, Violet," he pleaded as he saw the scepticism flash across her features. "We're going to go in there, take the bat and confess. You're going to say he came on to you, you were uncomfortable and told him to stop, but he got too brave and crossed the line. You're going to say you tried calling for help, but the music was too loud. Then you are going to say that he pushed you up against the wall and you had no choice but to hit him with this bat, then you left the party with the bat and came straight here." His words were fast but deliberate and full of authority. "It was self defence. You hear me, Violet? Self defence." He repeated the words for emphasis.  
"Why are you doing this for me?" Violet whispered.  
"I told you. I won't let anybody hurt you." Tate said simply, scared by the truth in his words. He mulled her question over in the back of his mind, where Inner-Tate was creeping around in the shadows. Why was he doing this for her? He barely knew her, so why was he suddenly playing the protector? _Because, dumbass, _Inner-Tate reared his beautifully dark head. _You always have been drawn to danger._

After only just managing to sneak Violet out of his house without waking his father or the home wrecker, Tate and Violet walked nervously to the police station conveniently situated a few blocks away. Tate had stashed the baseball bat in his backpack and Violet was picking at the skin around her fingernails to prevent herself from banging her head off a brick wall. They walked the entire way in nervous, frightful silence.

Both slowed their pace as the police station came into view. They stopped across the street and Violet took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry Tate," her words came out in a rush as she wasn't used to feeling remorse for everything. She didn't feel bad when she left her mother unconscious on the floor for three hours before calling an ambulance. She didn't feel bad when she stubbed her cigarette out on that popular bitch's face. She didn't feel bad when the baseball bat that was sticking out of Tate's rucksack collided with Travis' skull. But right now, she felt like the world's worst person. "I would never have dragged you into this out of choice. I don't have the capability to feel sorry for Travis but I feel sorry for you." She looked up at his darling face, hoping to see some kind of disgust towards her. "You're a pure soul, Tate," she half smiled. "You're like an angel. I don't know where you came from, but you probably should have stayed there. I'm no good for you."

Her last sentence rang like bells in his ears, reverberating around every hollow space in his head. She was good for him, in a self-destructive, dangerous kind of way. She was the thrill he had never had before. No amount of weed or drugs or even cutting gave him the kick that she gave him. And this incident? Well, it was just the cherry on top of the batshit crazy cake that was his life right now. And for some reason that he couldn't quite retrieve from his brain, he was willing to testify for this girl so that her heinous crime could be forgotten and they could continue being batshit crazy together.

"You're more than good for me." With those words said, he took her hand in his and marched across the street, right into the front doors of the police station. It was generally quiet, for people weren't always up at sunset reporting crimes, after all. Before either of them could turn around and bolt, Tate approached the counter with Violet in tow, where a plump police officer was sat behind his desk, tapping at his computer. He sat up and attempted to sound interested but when he spoke, he was almost monotonous.  
"What can I do for you, kids?"  
"We'd like to... Report a... Crime?" Tate was so unsure of his words it was almost comical. The man behind the desk raised an eyebrow. "I'm guessing police were called to Travis Wanderley's house last night." He tried again. The police officer tapped the name into his computer and Tate registered the recognition on his face.  
"Oh, yeah, nasty work. Pronounced dead on the scene," he stopped talking before he gave out too many details. "What do you know?"  
Violet saw Tate about to speak and couldn't hold back anymore. This was her mess, not his. She stepped forward and blurted out: "It was me. I killed him." The police officer was taken aback at the outburst but proceeded to try and take her seriously. He appraised her short, petite frame.  
"You killed Travis Wanderley?" he asked with a hint of scepticism. "A little girl like you?"  
"Yes, I did. I did it," her eyes caught Tate's gaze only momentarily, but she understood the message he was screaming to her inside his head. "He... He was trying it on with me... It was his party and he took me upstairs, he said he wanted to talk..." The lies flowed out fast and free and she was scarily good at this. "I told him to back off but he wasn't having it... Then he pinned me against the wall and I just grabbed the bat and swung for him..." Tears fell from her bush-baby eyes and only added to the Oscar-winning performance she was putting on. The police officer was frantically jotting everything down into his notebook. He looked up at her.  
"Whoa, whoa, bat? There was no bat at the crime scene."  
"I still had it in my hand when I ran," Violet sniffed and extracted the bat from Tate's backpack and laid it on the counter. "I was so frightened, officer..." More tears leaked from her eyes. The officer eyed the baseball bat and then focused his attention on Tate.  
"You, boy, what exactly have you got to do with it?" He had his pen poised, ready to write down everything he said, word for word.  
Tate swallowed imperceptibly. "Violet came straight to my house. She was really upset – understandably – but she wouldn't tell me what had happened. I just took the bat from her and let her sleep. Then this morning I convinced her to tell me everything." He looked down at Violet who was looking at her shoes. "She was too scared to confess. She thought Travis might have told you a different story, but... I guess... I guess he's really dead, huh?" Tate feigned disbelief and hoped his words were laced with a sorrowful flavour.  
"Huh, right. Okay, come with me, please. I think we'd like to question you both in more detail. Separately," he added.


	8. 8: Dark Doctor

After several hours of gruelling interrogations, Tate and Violet were allowed to leave whilst the police added their statements to the case. Tate prayed to every God out there that there were no hitches in their story; he simply could not go to jail, or worse, watch Violet get sent down for something she did in the wrong state of mind.

Although he was quite open with Violet, he had a secret hope in the back of his mind that the small detail he had mentioned about her seeing a psychiatrist may have helped her defence slightly. You saw on those crappy TV shows all the time about people who were on drugs and seeking help for mental instability often got away with murders. Tate swallowed hard and hoped that for once his life could be like one of those crappy TV shows, too.

They walked back to their street which was just coming alive for the day. Children in their Sunday best were racing around their front yards, waiting for their parents to take them to church. Violet didn't believe in any of that God bullshit, but she vowed to herself that if she stayed out of jail for this, she'd make an effort to go to church sometimes. Maybe.

They reached the fence that separated their yards and Violet turned to Tate before he had the chance to speak. "I don't think we should see each other anymore, Tate."  
Tate looked at her blankly as her words set in. "Uh... What?" He asked stupidly.  
"It was wrong of me, getting you involved in this. We shouldn't talk anymore. I'll stop seeing your dad and then we won't have a reason to talk. We'll just be neighbours." She looked down at her shoes which were suddenly more interesting than Tate's angelic, broken face.  
"Violet... Don't say that," he pleaded, ashamed of the emotion showing in his voice. "I don't want to stop seeing you. You're wonderful. I can... I can forget this. We both can."  
Violet was already shaking her head. "No, Tate, we can't. I am not going to corrupt you. I'm a mess; I'm fucked up, Tate. I have too many issues and it's not your job to fix them." Her voice became more forceful with each word.  
Tate felt a hint of anger flare in his stomach. "Violet, not everything is about you!" Her head snapped up and she looked at him, shocked by his outburst. "You have problems? Yeah, well so do I. I have fucking problems too, Violet. Having problems doesn't make you a bad person. Fuck, Violet," he grabbed handfuls of his blonde hair in his fists. "You could have smacked _me_ with that baseball bat and I wouldn't think any less of you." He groaned at the truth in his statement. The look in her dark eyes made any anger fizzle away and he crouched slightly so he could be on her eye level. "Violet... You don't get it at all, do you?"  
Violet felt something foreign and unknown flood through her veins. Was it... Admiration? Pleasure? Nobody had ever said it so plainly to her. She _loved _it. She loved that he could tell her things so openly about herself, the way no bullshitting therapist ever would. It took everything in her to keep that bastard smile off her face every second he was criticising her. "Tate-" She was cut off by the voice of Doctor Langdon a few metres away.  
"Tate, get in here." His voice was calm but even Violet wasn't oblivious to the silent threats it held. Tate's back was to his father and she watched him close his eyes for a brief moment. "Did you hear me?" His father grew impatient.  
"Go home, Violet. Go straight to your room and don't try and talk to me until Monday." Tate whispered hurriedly. "Do you understand?"  
Violet was slightly hurt at his words; sure, she had told him they couldn't speak anymore, but hearing him willing to have a break from her hurt her somewhere she didn't like to be affected. But she nodded and walked up her front steps, pausing briefly at her front door as she locked eye contact with Doctor Langdon.  
"Oh, and Violet," he said politely. "Our session will be cancelled today." With that, he retreated inside his home and Tate trudged in after him. The entire exchange felt wrong and Violet couldn't shake the unnerving feeling she had about all of it.

Tate closed the door behind him reluctantly and took a steady, calm breath. This was nothing new; he knew exactly what was going to happen now. He just had to be a big boy and take it. He heard the slow, rhythmic pounding of his father's feet on the fake hardwood floor until his figure was looming above him. "Just what exactly do you think you're up to?" He spat menacingly. "Violet Harmon is a patient. That means, Tate," he hissed his name and grabbed Tate's face in his hand, forcing him to look at him. "She is out of bounds. Thinking of frolicking into the sun with her, were you? Well, think again, boy. You're a piece of shit. Coming to think of it, she's pretty fucking crazy herself, so you probably deserve each other."  
"Don't talk about her like that, you don't know her," Tate said bravely. He knew he'd take an extra hit for that.  
Doctor Langdon raised his eyebrows. "What was that? Was that back-talk?" He used the kind of patronising tone you would use with a child. "Well, we know the rules about back-talk, don't we, Tate?" He dropped Tate's face from his grip and shoved him back against the front door. The doorknob caught Tate's back, winding him. "You think I didn't hear you sneak out the other night?" He brought his fist down and it collided with the side of Tate's jaw. "You think I didn't hear you sneak _her_ in?" Another blow to the face. Two. Three. "How fucking dare you disrespect me, you piece of shit. Who do you think you are? I helped bring you into this world. I took you in when your mother left you, because even she couldn't stand the sight of your miserable face."  
Tate spat the blood from his mouth and glared at his father. "Mom left because you couldn't keep your _dick_ in your pants and not fuck every single patient under the age of thirty, _sir." _He sneered the last word, feeling brave in a twisted way. Langdon grabbed him by the shirt and threw him to the ground, kicking him in the ribs.  
"I can keep doing this, Tate, it really doesn't bother me," he delivered another hearty kick to Tate's side, causing him to cough and splutter. "You have to learn. I refuse to put up with your shit. I could have left you on the streets, Tate, but I'm a better man than that. I could make you wish you'd never even been born."  
"I already do." It came out weaker than Tate had intended, but he meant it nonetheless. Langdon just looked down at his son in disgust and strode into his office, slamming the door. When Tate heard the click of the lock, he deemed it safe to move. He groaned and winced at the pain, especially in his ribs. He gingerly poked his side to test if anything was broken. He couldn't even be sure anymore; he wondered if, like when he cut, he'd ever become resistant to the pain.

Feeling lightheaded, he stood and limped up the stairs, just managing to make it into his bedroom before he fell to his knees again. He slumped on the floor, slouching against the foot of his bed. Using the back of his hand, he wiped away the blood that was congealing on his lip. When he cast his eyes up, Lucy was leaning in his doorway, pouting in an attempt to look sympathetic. "Poor Tate, not again," her voice was high-pitched and annoying and Tate was pretty sure she just put it on to look cute. She stepped into his bedroom without invitation and bent down to see his face, purposely exposing her cleavage to him. She gently pressed his cheek with her perfectly manicured fingers. "Want me to kiss it better?" She smirked and batted her dark eyelashes.  
"Fuck off, Lucy."  
"Ooh, now is that any way to speak to a lady?" Lucy squealed and left for a brief moment, slipping into his bathroom. He heard the sound of the faucet running and then suddenly she was back before him, wet flannel in her hand. "Here, let me make it better." She rested on her knees in front of him and placed the flannel to the new bruise forming along his cheekbone. He let his eyelids flutter closed, briefly appreciating the cool water on his stinging face. His eyes shot open again when he felt pressure elsewhere; Lucy was running her hand up his leg, staring at his face darkly.  
"I thought I told you to fuck off," Tate groaned, annoyed.  
"It's not the same, Tate," she whispered. "He doesn't touch me the way you can..." She trailed off huskily, leaning forward and breathing hotly in his ear. Tate didn't want her anywhere near him; the smell of her tacky perfume made his nostrils sting. But he was a male and he had needs and any woman with double-D boobs (real or not) rubbing you in all the right places would start to have an effect. He felt his hard-on strain against his jeans and suddenly Violet's face appeared in his head. He didn't know why and he didn't know how, but his subconscious had decided to conjure her up and make him see sense. He had a moment of clarity when he saw those dark eyes and he pushed Lucy away from him; any sense of arousal from earlier had vanished.  
"Don't ever touch me like that again," he warned. "I'm not doing this anymore, Lucy. Get the fuck out of here." Lucy scowled, threw the flannel at his face and stormed out, obviously feeling very rejected.

Tate heaved himself on to his bed and turned to lie on his unbeaten side. _What a fucking mess,_ he thought to himself. The urge to find his razor blade was almost overwhelming, but Tate decided his body had taken enough punishment already and that he shouldn't subject it to any more. The temptation to cut his wrists was then replaced with a sickening urge to just cut his throat and end it now. Tate shuddered at the sound of his own voice in his head, making careful plans on how to take his own life. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, attempting to drown out the voices and numb the agony of his steadily bruising body.


	9. 9: Forbidden Fruit

**I woke up to many lovely reviews, so thank you. You are beautiful, wonderful people + I hereby bestow upon you all your own personal Tate Langdon, to do with as you wish. You're welcome.**

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Violet glanced at her alarm clock which told her that it was 4:30am. She had to get up for school in two hours anyway, so what was the point in trying to sleep now? She couldn't get her brain to shut the hell up.

She was worried about Tate. Not just with his dad, but what if he really never talked to her again? What if he woke up and realised that yeah, she really should go to jail for killing Travis? Would he hand her in? Violet paced her room endlessly, feeling too hot all of a sudden. She could feel a pressure building in her head, like it was pushing against her skull. _What the... _That was when the voices broke in. Voices filled every crevice in her mind and the scariest part was that they weren't Violet's voice. She could hear a man's dark, sinister sneer and a woman's pleading voice that sounded like it belonged with bubblegum and blonde pigtails. The voices became entwined in one incomprehensible sound, swirling around her head. Had she gone crazy now?

She stumbled into her bathroom and turned on her shower, stripping off her clothes and throwing herself under the freezing cold stream of water. The drops of water hit her skin like ice cubes but she gritted her teeth and let it wake her up. The voices faded a little and slipped to the back of her head. She exhaled deeply and only when her entire body hurt from the cold and the goosebumps did she decide it was time to get out.

Violet wrapped herself tightly in her towel, teeth chattering but with a clearer head. She could still feel them lurking in the shadows of her unconscious, but decided not to give them an invitation to return. She quickly dried herself off and threw on a mismatched outfit, pretending the deep bags under her eyes didn't exist.

Getting to school was hell. Violet left early and every alleyway she passed she just wanted to curl up in forever. Would people know about Travis already? Why hadn't the police called yet? With this thought, her breath hitched in her throat. Would they be waiting for her at school? She never gave two shits about Travis, but no way did she want to be thrown into a jail cell for doing the world a favour.

Tate had overslept; the heady amount of painkillers he had taken during the night had made him practically comatose until his father had beaten dents into his door. He arrived just in time for second period, where he just slid into his seat and tried to ignore the looks he was getting for his beaten face. The entire lesson passed by in a blur of colours and sounds and before he knew it he was stumbling out of his classroom and there she was.

She was leant against the lockers opposite his classroom, wearing an outfit that clashed and an expression that screamed 'I hate the world'. Her eyes were scanning the crowd and then locked with his. First, a smile graced her pink lips which made Tate's heart stutter but then he saw the concern fill every pore of her beautiful face. Her eyebrows knitted together as he made his way over to her. She looked over him with her wide, dark eyes and gently pressed his injuries; his temple, his cheekbone and then placed her feather-light touch on the split in his lip. It was different to how Lucy had touched him the night before; he felt something in Violet's fingertips. He didn't know what it was but it made his pulse speed up and his palms a little bit sweaty. Tate expected a barrage of questions but, as usual, she exceeded his expectations and instead grabbed his hand and tugged him down the corridor, slipping into the empty gymnasium.

They sat together on the bleachers and Tate was suddenly hyperaware of her proximity. Violet noticed too, but she was too busy trying not to think about ripping the throat out of whoever did this to him. "Tell me who did this," she whispered tersely, her words echoing in the gym.  
"It doesn't matter, Violet."  
"Don't give me that bullshit, Tate. This isn't the first time you've been beaten to a pulp. I'm worried about you." Tate's stomach did a front flip and he closed his eyes so hers couldn't bore into his soul anymore.  
"He's always done it," his voice was barely above a whisper. He had never admitted this to anyone before and Inner-Tate was questioning why he trusted her so much when she clearly wasn't all there. "It was just little pinches when I was younger, no big deal. But then I caught him with that bitch... And he made me promise not to tell my mom, but I was still so young, so I told her and that was the first time he really went for it." It all came out in a rush before he could stop himself. He opened his eyes and Violet was looking at him with an unreadable expression.  
"Your dad?" She confirmed. Tate nodded and she reached over and took his hand, resting it on his knee. He found this small token of affection insanely comforting, as he had never had an affectionate relationship with anyone in his life. "He shouldn't do that to you," she stated, rubbing his knuckles with her thumb. "Nobody should do that to you. My mom drinks a lot, sure, but I know she wouldn't ever lay a finger on me. Why would he do that to you?" She asked rhetorically and Tate could tell her voice was sad. _She should never be sad because of me, _he vowed internally.  
"Hey," he said softly. "I'm okay. Don't worry about me." He forced a smile to which Violet rolled her eyes. "I just need to finish high school and I can get the fuck out of here," he sighed.  
"We can go together," Violet smiled slightly. "You should come and stay with me."  
Tate laughed lightly. "I'm no safer being next door. I wouldn't want him to take it out on you, anyway. I can deal with it."

Without another word, Violet used her free hand to pull his head down and he rested against her chest. She leaned down and tenderly kissed the bruises on his face and then planted one on the top of his head, much like a mother would do. Tate felt weak in the knees and dark butterflies were fluttering through his veins. How could a girl that could kill so easily be so... Warm? He smiled to himself at the cliché psychopath-with-a-poetic-soul stereotype. They sat in a comfortable silence as Violet gave Tate the closeness he had been missing his entire life. He felt like he was destined to know this girl; she was something special. Like the forbidden fruit – he wasn't supposed to desire her but he did, oh God, he did. He shook mental hands with Inner-Tate as he vowed that somehow, someday, Violet Harmon would be his.


	10. 10: Vivien

When Violet stumbled down the stairs wearily the next morning, she was shocked to find her mother sitting at the breakfast counter, appearing utterly sober. It felt like she had almost forgotten her mother even existed; she had been so caught up in her own issues and Tate that Vivien Harmon had slipped her mind entirely. It had been a welcome break. She looked twenty years older than her thirty-nine year old self; bags permanently etched into her cheeks. Her hair was dull; not the exciting red she used to be renowned for. Her eyes were lifeless and had long lost the sparkle they once held.

Her mother eyed her with a look she couldn't put her finger on. Violet proceeded with her morning routine and stepped around her to fill up her glass at the sink, her back to Vivien. That was when she spoke. "Why did you do it?" Her voice was hoarse, as though she hadn't uttered a word in years. Violet felt a shudder threaten her spine; she had almost forgotten what her mother's voice sounded like. She felt the ghost of an ache in her heart, which was replaced with confusion at her question.  
"Do what?" She didn't turn around.  
"That school boy," she said calmly. "I saw the newspaper at the store. Why did you do it, Violet?"  
Violet swallowed the bile rising in her throat. How could her mother know? She hadn't had a conversation with her for months. She had barely been coherent since the alcohol took hold of her life. But now... "You think I did it?" She scoffed.  
Vivien stood, taking the bottle of whiskey from the counter and hugging it to her hip. "You are your mother's daughter." With that, she shuffled upstairs and Violet heard the faint click of her bedroom door.

Violet placed her glass on the side and let out a breath she didn't realise she had been holding. She suddenly felt a pang of emotion in her stomach. It was foreign to her and she couldn't quite place what she was feeling. It was like she could feel the phantom memories of her old life floating around, haunting every cell in her body. She missed how it was before. She missed her mother's laugh and her father's crooked smile as he tried to remain serious. Her subconscious conjured up the last image of her father that she could remember. She couldn't even recall what colour his eyes were, as her last memory of them was when they were closed. She couldn't think about it anymore; tears pricked her eyes and tears were a sign of weakness.

The school week was uneventful and Violet was becoming tired of the lack of activity. The police had not returned and she began to question if they had ever really been there for her. The whole Travis ordeal was beginning to feel like a bad dream, the kind where you wake up in a cold sweat and let out a shaky laugh because it was after all just a nightmare. She noted also that she hadn't seen Tate around school at all and she tried to mute the pathetic longing she felt for his presence.

The principal announced over the loudspeaker that there was going to be a memorial held for Travis on the Friday of that week. Violet almost laughed aloud at the irony if she dared turn up to the service. She then recalled that Doctor Langdon had asked to see her on Friday afternoon. She couldn't blow him off again if she wanted him to keep treating her, but equally she couldn't stand to see his face after what he had done to Tate. The vision of his bruised face and the knowledge that it had come from the hands of his own father made Violet's blood boil. She had a long list of people she'd happily eradicate and he was top of it.

Violet walked home unhappily – more so than usual – and nearly had a heart attack when she spotted the police car parked lazily between her house and Tate's. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat as she saw his mop of blonde curls duck out of the vehicle and she watched him turn, say a few words to the officer in the driver's seat, close the door and step back on to the curb. Violet's eyes didn't leave the car until it had driven away and she could no longer hear the engine. Tate stood and watched her until she finally approached him. "They wanted to question me again," he said bluntly. "There was a detail I had missed in my statement, apparently."  
Violet watched his eyes carefully. "What was that?" she asked calmly.  
"I didn't mention that I had gone to the party, too. Witnesses," he waved the word off like an annoying bug that was flying around.  
"Is everything okay?" Violet couldn't hide the distress in her voice.  
Tate nodded slowly. "Yeah, don't worry; I saved your ass again."  
Violet looked down at her suddenly very interesting shoes. Was he pissed off at her? He did, in realism, have every right to be annoyed, but Violet couldn't help but feel stupidly hurt that he was angry at her.  
"I also heard that you're still seeing my dad," Tate's eyes were hard and flat as slate.  
"I have to, Tate. Trust me, I don't want to see his face again after what he did to you... But I... I need help, Tate. I really think he can help me."  
Tate's jaw tensed as if he was biting back a response, then he gave a curt nod and walked away, slipping inside his house without another word.

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**Sorry for the late update; last week of term was a bit hectic and writer's block ensued. But now I have all holidays to bring you gifts of Tate, Violet and some serious angst. Maybe. Sorry this is short (and incredibly badly written) but sometimes filler chapters are necessary. Enjoy nonetheless. **


	11. 11: Violate

Violet lay horizontally across the plush leather couch in Doctor Langdon's office. Five minutes had passed and he was still unsure how he wanted to begin the session.

"How are you feeling today, Violet?" he asked lamely, setting up a dictaphone and placing it gently on the desk that stood between them.  
"Fine."  
"How have you been coping since the death of one of your peers?"  
Violet resisted the urge to snort a response. "It's fine. I didn't talk to him anyway."  
"You attended his party though, didn't you?" Doctor Langdon's voice became slightly strained. "It must have been distressing to know you were there when it happened."  
Violet sat up and regarded him with an icy look. "I told you – I didn't speak to Travis. Therefore, I couldn't care less if he's rotting six feet underground or if he's walking the streets like you or I." She lay back down and folded her arms behind her head, counting the breaks in the ceiling tiles.

Doctor Langdon jotted a few notes down on his pad and Violet found the scratching of pen on paper to be very irritating. "How are things with your mother?"  
"She's still a raging alcoholic, if that's what you mean," Violet replied bluntly. She was tired of his mundane questions. She was tired of these sessions completely. She found that she couldn't trust him anymore, not since she knew how he treated his own son. An idea struck her and she decided that two could play mind games if that's what he wanted. "I suppose I'm lucky, though. She might be a drunken mess but she'd never hurt me."  
Doctor Langdon's jaw tightened. "What about your father? You've never mentioned him."  
"I don't know where he is," she said flatly. "But what I _do _know is that he wouldn't have laid a finger on me, either. It's funny that isn't it? _Unconditional love." _Violet felt satisfied at the visible perspiration that had appeared on the doctor's brow. She couldn't decipher if he was nervous or angry but it gave her a sick thrill to get him so worked up.  
A smirk flashed across his face but disappeared as quickly as it came. "Would you ever hurt anyone, Violet?" He asked as though it were a simple routine question but Violet knew there was a wholly different question between the lines.  
"Who knows," she deadpanned. "That's like asking a lion if it bites." She snapped her teeth and grinned, though her eyes were hard. She spied the clock behind Doctor Langdon's head and jumped up from her reclining position. "Well, nice chatting with you, doc." She turned to leave but the doctor called her back.  
"Ah, one more thing, Violet," he walked behind her and spoke in her ear, his breath blowing her hair and making her uncomfortable. "I don't want you anywhere near Tate again." With that he stepped away and returned to his desk, not sparing her another glance.

Violet left his office and shut the door behind her, stepping into Tate's empty hallway. She longed to see him; she hadn't stopped thinking about him all week and she couldn't stand for him to be angry at her any longer. He was the first person to make her feel like despite all her fuck-ups and her flaws, he still saw hints of the Violet that she used to be. However, equally, she didn't want to corrupt him any more than she had done already. She hovered around for a while, lifting her foot to take a step towards the staircase, just to place it back on the ground, deciding that it was a terrible idea. Having repeated this cycle a few times, she turned to head towards the front door, defeated.

Tate was upstairs, straining his ears to hear her leave. He'd heard her come out of her session but she hadn't exited through the front door yet. What was she doing? An annoying majority of him wanted so desperately for her to climb the stairs and see him, but he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't. After more silence from downstairs and more debates with Inner-Tate, he finally jumped to his feet and skidded in his socks over the hardwood floor to the top of the stairs.

There she was, looking beautiful and awkward and batshit crazy, standing uncertainly in his hallway and heading for the front door. He knew his dad would still be around so he cleared his throat to grab her attention. She stopped and turned towards him; he said nothing but jerked his head, telling her to follow him upstairs. Tate turned and disappeared back to his bedroom. Violet swallowed the lump in her throat to take its place with the butterflies battering her ribcage. She went to the front door, opened it then closed it again, before ascending the stairs as silent as a whisper.

She crossed the landing, trailing her fingertips on the walls as she went. She noticed that there were no photographs of Tate on the walls; no baby pictures, no dorky class photos. She half smiled at the mental image of baby Tate she had created in her head – big, shiny eyes and that mop of blonde curls sticking up in all directions. She wished she had known him when he was younger; perhaps they could have helped each other. Perhaps they would be different people now.

She took the last few steps and slipped into his bedroom, turning her back to the room as she closed the door. She really just wanted a few more moments without looking at his face because she knew when she did, any resolve she had would dissolve like a mint in a can of soda. Slowly, she turned and her heart thudded as she saw him perched at the end of his bed, watching her with those dark, soulful eyes. They looked at each other for what felt like a decade, unspoken words passing between them. She had caused him so much trouble: being a witness to her murdering Travis, lying for her and taking beatings from his father for hanging out with her... She was no good for him and yet here she was, so selfishly forcing him to be in her presence just to satisfy the strange need for him that she felt inside.

"I'm sorry, Tate," her words came gushing out like inconvenient word vomit. "I'm so sorry for everything. I'm sorry for getting you involved with the Travis thing. I'm sorry for making you lie for me and I'm sorry that your dad hit you because you went to the party with me. I know that's why he did it... I know... And if I'd have known things would get this messed up, I'd have left you alone a long time ago. I want to leave you alone. I want to disappear and make it like you never met me." Tate fidgeted and stood up, suppressing the urge to cry. The thought of her leaving forever made him sick to his stomach. This girl was a psychopath but she had become an irrevocable part of his life. He began to walk towards her but stopped as she spoke again, softer this time. "But the truth is, Tate... I couldn't leave you alone even if I tried." She felt tears prick the back of her eyes and she was furious at herself for showing such emotion.

Tate, on the other hand, showed no hesitation as he closed the gap between them in four short strides, placing one hand either side of her face and pressing his lips to hers. It felt to him like he had waited a thousand years for this moment and it was everything he had imagined so many times. He felt her tension drift away beneath him and she kissed him back, grabbing his sweater in her tiny hands and tiptoeing to kiss him harder. Tate pulled back slowly and watched her eyelids flutter open, her dark orbs boring into his. "Don't leave me," he whispered, his breath making a few stray hairs tickle her face. He sounded so vulnerable; exactly like the baby picture Violet had created in her mind. Her heart constricted and she knew from this very second on, no matter what happened and what the universe threw at them, she could never leave this beautiful blonde boy behind even if she wanted to.

"Never," she replied, more honestly than she had ever spoken in her life.


	12. 12: Halloween I

**I hate pre-warnings because they are usually a massive spoiler, but just so I don't get my ass kicked I have to warn you that... Well basically, this story is M for a reason, right? Cool.**

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For the next few months, Tate and Violet were practically inseparable. Violet would sneak Tate in her window at night and they would stay up until the early dawn; sometimes they would talk and sometimes they wouldn't and sometimes Violet would lie with Tate and stroke his hair and kiss his bruises and tell him that everything would be okay.

Violet continued to be treated by Doctor Langdon, much to Tate's secret distaste. He couldn't understand why she would want to spend an hour each week with him when she knew what he was capable of, but he tried not to take it personally because he knew Violet needed help. Violet looked and felt happier than she had done in quite a long time. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to be happy.

Fall had fast approached and the late October air was chillier than usual. The breeze rattled the bare, gnarled branches of the tree outside Violet's window, knuckles knocking like an unwelcome visitor. It was Halloween and Tate had asked her on a date. She remembered his words: "It can be a Halloween date. I know how you don't like normal things." The absurdity of it all almost made Violet laugh; although they had been joined at the hip since the day he first kissed her, Tate had never asked Violet for any kind of label to put on their relationship. She was half relieved, half disappointed.

She felt lighter than usual; like a burden had been lifted from within her very bones. She had somehow miraculously been cleared of any murder charges in relation to Travis' death and she had even managed to convince the police to keep her identity anonymous and out of the press. She had followed Tate's advice and pleaded insanity and self defence and she had a suspicion that Doctor Langdon had backed up her statement, for reasons she couldn't quite place.

Vivien had been more active for the past few weeks; she was still drunk from morning til night, but she would be sat at the kitchen counter when Violet got up for school and wouldn't usually lock herself away until she had left. Violet didn't know if this was progress or not but she felt optimism seep through her usually hard, emotionless mask.

She was sat on her bed, facing the window when she was suddenly aware of somebody in the room with her. She turned and there stood a young woman with blonde hair, ringlets pinned intricately to her head. She was wearing a splendid dress that made her look as though she had stepped right out of a 20's movie. She had porcelain skin and a kind face. "Nora," Violet smiled. Ever since she had discovered the truth about the house she lived in, some of the spirits had taken to appearing to her. It wasn't often that she saw them in their full form as they usually came to her as voices in her head. Nora was the only soul trapped within the estate that Violet felt was pure.

Violet's house was built long ago by a doctor to the stars, who had built it for Nora, his wife. Doctor Montgomery had been addicted to drugs and went a little crazy, locking himself away in the basement most of the time. Nora had killed him and then committed suicide after she had her baby stolen by the angry boyfriend of one of Doctor Montgomery's patients. This was why Violet had taken a liking to Nora; she was like the mother-figure Violet secretly craved. She enjoyed her company.

Nora smiled tearfully and seemed to glide across the room, standing beside Violet and resting a light, cold hand on her shoulder. "Violet, my darling," she spoke so softly it was as if she was talking to herself. "Do you know what today is?"  
"Sure, it's Halloween."  
Nora smiled again, looking at the teenager's face. "Yes, my dear. Do you know what Halloween is all about?"  
Violet frowned. "Well, yeah, you dress up and go get candy from strangers." What else was it going to be? Nora had a habit of being vague and it seemed like she was in her own little world most of the time.  
Nora grinned and shook her head, her blonde curls bouncing like springs. "No, Violet. Halloween is the one day where the dead can walk amongst the living." With that, she patted Violet's head tenderly and slipped out of the room, humming to herself in a beautiful soprano tone. Violet's smile faded and she returned to staring out of the window, Nora's words making circles in her mind. She was jolted from her thoughts when she saw Tate leave his house and jump the fence into her yard. Her face instantly broke out into a smile once again.

Violet was down the stairs ready to open the front door before Tate had even knocked. Tate grinned and he looked like a small child, his mess of blonde curls had grown even longer and fell right down into his eyes. He shook his head like a puppy and smiled his megawatt smile. "Hey, beautiful," he winked and stepped forward, kissing her hard on the lips. Violet couldn't help but laugh; he was like a big kid these days. She craved his playfulness on the days where she got too lost in the abyss of her mind. "Shall we?" He held out his hand to her which she took, lacing their fingers together and allowing him to pull her from the threshold of her house and down the street, running until they were safely past his own house.

They spent the day on the tiny beach they had sneaked out to that night, the night where they had both confessed to their secret in common – self harm. Violet sat up from the sand suddenly and took Tate's hands in hers, pushing his sleeves up with her thumbs. There was nothing but silvery scars that marked his skin now and a small smile tugged at her lips. He watched her with his careful, dark eyes and slowly rolled up her sleeves, too. He smiled passionately as he recognised the lack of fresh cuts on her wrists. He kissed the end of her nose and whispered, his breath hot against her face: "I'm proud of you." Violet smiled and nodded, stroking his inner wrists with her thumbs absentmindedly.

Autumn made the days shorter and it was soon growing dark. Neither of the pair was in any rush to return home when the best thing they had was right there with them. They walked hand in hand through the gritty sand until they reached the sidewalk, where Violet stopped to brush her feet off and slip her boots back on. They walked down the block and slipped down a side-street which brought them to a subway tunnel. They walked down the dimly lit passage, Tate observing the obscene graffiti on the walls. He laughed to himself at some of the crude jokes scrawled on the ceiling above him. He looked down at Violet who was looking at him lustfully. He felt his palms become inconveniently sweaty and she smirked, leaning up to kiss him. He snaked his arms around her tiny waist and walked her backwards, forcing her against the cool, smooth bricks of the wall. She grunted in response and ran her fingers through his hair, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling his face closer. He pressed his body flush with hers and ran his hands up her sides, slipping them beneath her shirt and feeling the warm, soft skin and the ripple of her ribs. She seemed so tiny he was afraid he would break her.

She released his face and pulled away from his lips, moving hers to his neck and biting down on his pulse point, causing him to groan low in his throat. She grabbed his backside in her hands and pushed him against her; he grew harder and more uncomfortable in his jeans. God, what was she trying to do, kill him? _Ironic, _Inner-Tate hissed but Tate ignored him. _Death by arousal_, he laughed internally. Tate ventured one hand south of her body and slipped his hand, agonisingly slowly, up her thigh and beneath her skirt to between her legs. Her knees buckled in response and he felt her breath hitch. Violet kissed him fully on the lips once again, taking his bottom lip between her teeth as he slipped his hand into her underwear.

Violet closed her eyes and felt her breath coming out in desperate pants over Tate's shoulder. She could feel a pleasant pressure building in her abdomen and she felt like she would explode. She dug her nails into Tate's shoulders as she felt herself reach her limit and come into her first, fantastic orgasm. Her squeals of pleasure echoed off the walls of the empty subway tunnel and Tate planted kisses in the hollow beneath her ear as she rode it out. Her eyes fluttered open and suddenly she was rigid. Tate's head snapped up and he looked at her face, fear in her eyes. "What is it?!" He demanded. He turned his head to the direction she was staring, terrified, and he felt embarrassment creep into every cell of his body.

At the entrance to the tunnel there stood a figure that looked like a man. His features were practically silhouetted against the streetlights behind him but Tate guessed he was a middle-aged man. He could feel Violet trembling under his grip and he knew it wasn't from pleasure this time. Had this man seen everything? _Fucking pervert,_ he spat mentally. He couldn't decide if he was more angry or embarrassed. After what felt like an eternity of silence and Tate and Violet staring at the man and him staring back, he finally made a move and began to approach them. His stance wasn't threatening but Tate couldn't seem to relax at all. Violet was giving off terrible vibes and he could feel her fear rolling off her in waves. "I thought you weren't scared of anything?" Tate muttered under his breath, attempting to make her laugh.

The man stopped a few feet away from them and looked directly at Violet. She stared right back, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. The man had short dark hair and dark stubble spattered his face. His eyes were a curious colour, dark and stony, which reminded Tate of Violet's eyes. Tate was alarmed when he noticed the blood stain on the man's shirt. "Violet?" The man spoke hoarsely with little emotion. Violet swallowed hard.  
"Do you know this guy?" Tate breathed in her ear.  
Violet nodded slowly. "It's my dad," she barely formed the words but they hung in the awkward silence like a bad stench. "This is my dad."

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**It had to get a bit porn-y eventually. It did. Okay? It did. Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it and if you don't, well, happy Tuesday. If you get bored and fancy reading something while you wait for an update on this, I'm starting a new fic called "Islands". Go read because it's something totally different. I love you all + your reviews make me happy.**


	13. 13: Halloween II

Tate frowned, lines embedded in the space between his eyebrows and turned to stare at the man Violet introduced as her father. He unconsciously edged away from her slightly, feeling uncomfortable about what he had potentially seen only moments earlier and, more importantly, what he could potentially do to Tate as a result.

No one said anything for what felt like an eternity; Violet stared at her father, who stared back at her and Tate stood on the outside feeling awkward. His eyes wandered to the copious amounts of blood that stained the man's shirt. "Are you okay?" He asked cautiously. The man's eyes flickered towards Tate. "The blood," he clarified, nodding his head towards the stain. The man looked down at his shirt indifferently and shot his eyes back to Violet, whose face had turned a sickly colour.

"I think you should go, Tate," Violet piped up. Tate looked at her incredulously. Was she for real? For one, she was evidently terrified. He didn't care about her 'I'm not scared of anything' bullshit. Did she genuinely think he would leave her here, frightened, with a shifty looking man? He didn't care if he was her father or fucking Jesus himself; there was no way he was going anywhere.  
"No, he can stay," the man finally spoke again. He looked at Tate with a cruel look in his eyes. Tate swallowed hard and tried to shake off the uncomfortable shivers that look gave him. "Why not introduce me to your boyfriend, Violet? I'm sure you two know a lot about each other, don't you?" There was harshness to his tone and an undercurrent that Tate didn't quite understand. He sensed Violet's bravery returning.  
"What are you doing here?" She spat, suddenly angry at her father's reappearance.  
"It's been such a long time, honey," her father replied. "Haven't you missed me? Say, how's your mother?" Tate literally saw fire burning in the man's eyes at the mention of Violet's alcoholic mother. He knew everything about this conversation was off and he wanted to grab Violet and run away and protect her forever.

As if she had read his mind, Violet grabbed his wrist and yanked him backwards, sprinting in the opposite direction of her father and dragging him in tow. Luckily, Tate had had a history of running track at his last high school and kept up with her easily. Somewhere in the thoughts-inappropriate-for-the-current-situation section of his brain he appraised her for her stamina and speed. They ran out of the subway tunnel and came out to another main road. The pair stopped in their tracks, digging their heels into the tarmac as they came face-to-face with Mr. Harmon, who had somehow appeared beneath the street lamp in front of them. Before Tate had time to comprehend it, the man was inches from his face, grabbing his shirt in both of his hands and lifting him from the ground. Tate cursed himself for not being as well-built as other guys his age. "So, what exactly has Violet told you about me, huh?" Flecks of saliva sprayed on Tate's face as he spoke and his breath smelled rancid, like something gone mouldy in the back of the refrigerator. In fact, his entire odour was similar to that of a dead animal by the side of a road.

Tate stuttered slightly. He was vaguely aware of Violet yelling to his left but he was consumed with an irrational fear that numbed his senses slightly. The man snorted in his face. "Of course. She probably hasn't told you anything, has she?" He sneered and opened his fists, promptly dropping Tate to the ground where he landed on his backside with a thud that made a painful lump form in his throat. Violet was screaming at the top of her lungs, thrashing her fists around and her father dodging every one.  
"What the fuck do you want?!" She hollered, her voice echoing around the deserted street. Her yells turned into sobs and Tate scrambled from the floor and wrapped his arms around her like a shield.  
"Look, man, I think you should leave," Tate demanded. "You're upsetting her. I don't know what the deal is here, but... I need you to go." He was impressed at his bravery and authority and even more so when Violet's father took one last loathing look at his daughter and literally disappeared into the shadows. "Violet," he said seriously. "What the fuck was that?" She lifted her head and her watery eyes made some of his anger melt.  
"Where is he?" she asked, her bottom lip trembling. Tate's heart constricted; she looked like a small child. He couldn't take this fragile side of her. Where was his fierce little spitfire?  
"He's gone." At that, her eyes turned as big as saucers and her breath came up in panicked, choked sobs.  
"Where? Where did he go? He can't, he'll get her, he'll get her, Tate!" She was clutching him and crying and Tate's brain was so tired from all this confusion.

Before he could ask any more questions, Violet was ten feet away, sprinting impossibly quickly down the street and out of sight. Tate knew he should go after her, but he needed a few minutes to get his head together. What exactly had happened tonight? He was happy – blissfully happy – spending time with Violet and then suddenly her estranged father shows up. Violet had barely mentioned him before, if at all. What was the deal there? What would explain the look of terror in her eyes at her father's reappearance? Anger, he would understand. Confusion? Sure, he got that. He swallowed the bile in his throat as he recognised the same look of fear he gave his own father before he beat him black and blue.

Tate shook himself and came back to the present. He needed to make sure Violet was safe. Every cell in his body was screaming out for him to follow her, so he picked up his feet and ran the entire way back to her house, hoping that's where she had ended up. He mentally cursed her for not owning a cell phone. The minute he crossed the threshold into her yard, his senses were on red alert. Nothing felt right. He decided against entering through the front door so cautiously edged around the outside of the property when he heard a bloodcurdling scream from within the house. He didn't know if it was Violet or not but without thinking twice, he sprinted into the back yard and in through the rear door, thanking God that it was unlocked.

He heard movement above him and stealthily crept up the staircase, following the sounds down the corridor. He stopped when he heard her voice. "Oh, she deserved it," a man's voice spoke and Tate matched it with that of Violet's father. He heard her sobbing angrily and fury flared through Tate's veins.  
"This would never have happened if you weren't a fucking pervert," Violet hissed. Tate had never heard her voice like this; he almost felt frightened by the seething hatred that dripped from every word. "If corporate punishment dealt with sick bastards like you, you'd be in the same position anyway. She did the world a fucking favour." Her words were cut off by someone being shoved and Tate heard the huff of air come from her lungs on the impact.  
"Don't fucking talk to me like that, you bitch!" Her dad roared. "There's nobody to protect you anymore, Vi," he laughed bitterly. Tate crept forward, crouching to the ground and peering around the door frame. He saw Violet up against the right-hand wall, her father spitting words into her face and there was a woman lay by his feet, her neck in a humanly impossible position. Tate's stomach lurched. He assumed it was her mother. "This bitch got what was coming to her," her dad nudged the body with the toe of his shoe. "And so will you."

Tate leapt out of his skin when he saw two figures in his peripherals. One was a woman with blonde curls bouncing around her angelic face, tears spilling down her rosy cheeks. The other, also a woman, had a flame of red hair and a worn face that looked disturbingly similar to the body that was dumped at Mr. Harmon's feet. She placed a finger to her lips in order to silence him and both women stepped graciously into the room, surveying the scene. Tate watched from his hiding spot, heart hammering almost audibly against his chest.

He saw Violet's eyes widen over her father's shoulder as she saw the women enter the room. She didn't seem frightened; concern was the emotion that flooded her face. Her father's head whipped around and he dropped his grip on his daughter, growling at the mysterious women. The red-haired lady gave an almost imperceptible nod to Violet, who had slid down against the wall and was letting silent tears spill down her face. She looked from the woman to her father once more, before closing her eyes tightly and whispering something to herself. She opened her eyes expectantly and frowned as nothing had changed. She muttered to herself again, repeatedly, louder each time until she was shouting the words 'go away' at the top of her lungs. She yelled until her throat was raw, hands clamped over her ears and her eyes glued shut, like a tiny, fragile, frightened child. Tate blinked several times to clarify what he saw next.

The figure of her father quite literally dissolved into thin air, leaving nothing but Violet and the two women in the room. He decided it was safe to make himself known and ran through the door and straight to Violet, throwing himself around her and whispering: "It's okay, it's fine, I'm here, it's okay, I'm here." When her crying ceased, she lifted her head from the crook in his neck and stared fearfully at the two women, who hadn't moved an inch. The blonde lady smiled kindly with glassy eyes and nodded encouragingly whilst the red-head looked at Tate with interest. The conflict of emotions rolling off each person in the room was giving him a headache. Violet turned her gaze to Tate; beautiful, pure Tate. The mere sight of him made her heart beat double-time and butterflies rattled against her rib cage. He was so wonderful and sweet and kind and he didn't deserve any of the fuckery she had so selfishly bestowed upon him, but if he deserved anything then it was the truth. He looked into her doe-like eyes expectantly. She took a deep shaky breath and began: "Tate, there's a lot of stuff I need to explain to you. You won't like it and you'll probably think I'm crazy," she laughed but it didn't reach her eyes. "I think you will probably leave me after this, but you deserve the truth. Every gory detail." Her eyes flickered over his shoulder to the other people in the room. Tate ignored them and took her face in his hand, looking at her intensely.  
"Violet Harmon," he said firmly. "I will never leave you. Ever." Violet smiled slightly, her heart threatening to fall out of her chest at his words but felt a pang of sadness. _He has no idea,_ she thought bitterly.

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**I apologise for the delay and how badly written this chapter is. But it is 2am + I've had such terrible writer's block. Don't be mad at me. **


	14. 14: Smile in Your Sleep

**So sorry I have disappeared for so long... Long story short, I had to get my head down for my exams and finish my year at college without distractions. But I'm back and I have all summer with you guys. I hope that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.**

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Tate took it upon himself to call the police. The two women promptly disappeared, but he didn't have the mental stamina to question it. Too many things in his life had become a question.

The cops stayed for a couple of hours questioning Violet and Tate and then removing Vivien Harmon's body from the upstairs bedroom.

"So where is your father now?" one of the policemen asked Violet gently. She shrugged in response and muttered something about him disappearing. The other officer tried to keep from rolling her eyes and scoffing.  
"He must be somewhere, Violet. Which way did he go?" she asked impatiently. Violet shrugged again.  
"She's tired. You won't get anything else out of her tonight," Tate took control of the situation. Violet was slumped against him in one of the chairs tucked under the wooden dining table. "She'll call you if she remembers anything." He looked at the officers pointedly and the patient man took it as their cue to leave. He placed a sympathetic hand on Violet's shoulder.  
"We're terribly sorry for your loss," he said with the formality that his job required, but laced with true sincerity. "Please, if you think of anything that could lead us to your father, don't hesitate to call us, no matter what time." He shook Tate's hand and both police officers left, leaving the house silent after the front door clicked shut.

Violet looked up at Tate with exhaustion in her eyes. She knew she had so much to explain to him: everything about her father, her mother... She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. Tate shook his head and put his arm around her tiny shoulders. "You don't have to explain anything now. Come on," he jerked his head towards the stairs and towed her along gently behind him, heading in to the bathroom. He put the lid down on the toilet and sat her down; she was so drained she could barely walk. Tate put the plug in the bath and turned both taps to begin filling the tub. "Wait here," he whispered, kissing the top of her head before slipping down the corridor to her mother's bedroom. He sighed as he surveyed the room from the doorway, before covering his hand with his sleeve and pulling the door shut. He didn't want Violet to have to look in there anymore.

He returned to the bathroom and poured some bath product into the steamy water, creating fragrant bubbles along the surface. Neither of the couple said anything for a few moments, both just listening to the water fill the porcelain tub. It was brilliant white with gold-coloured faucets and golden claw feet. When the water was deep enough, Tate turned off the taps and dipped his hand in the water to make sure it wasn't too hot.

Satisfied, he walked over to Violet and helped her stand. "Lift your arms," he prompted softly, like one would with a sleepy child. Tate undressed her gently and helped her step into the bath, which she immediately sank in to. Almost instantly, she began to relax as she inhaled the lavender fragrance of the bubbles. After a few minutes, she sat forward and folded her hands on the edge of the tub, resting her head on them. "Are you coming in?" she offered hoarsely.  
"Would you like me to?" Tate swallowed. Violet nodded wearily. He began to strip, feeling self-conscious as Violet didn't take her eyes off him. To be perfectly honest, he'd never been naked in front of anyone before and the thought of it made his stomach knot. He kicked his clothes to one side and Violet slid forward, making room in the tub for him behind her. He stepped in the water and slipped down, sitting Violet between his legs. She leaned back, lying against his chest and holding the hands he'd wrapped around her waist.

Violet allowed her eyelids to flutter shut and felt her stress evaporate with the steam coming from the bath water. Everything that had happened in the past few months felt like a long, tedious dream. She knew the police were suspicious of her now; she'd already been in trouble for Travis' death and now her mother had suddenly dropped dead in her house, without witnesses? _No living witnesses, anyway,_ she muttered internally. She knew this could be it for her. She sighed wearily.

Tate lifted his head, leaning forward and kissing the top of Violet's head. He wanted to make all of this shit go away. Truthfully, Tate was nervous about what Violet had to tell him. He adored her, but she was unpredictable. He questioned just how much he knew her at all.

"Want me to wash your hair?" Tate asked softly, causing Violet to sit up and crane her neck to face him. Her initial expression was one of confusion, as though no one had ever suggested such a thing to her in her life. Tate raised his eyebrows to show he was serious and Violet's expression softened. She nodded with a small smile on her lips.

Tate grabbed a plastic cup from the side of the tub and filled it with water, letting it gently cascade down the back of her head and allowing her hair to soak up the warm liquid. When her hair was soaking, he poured some shampoo into the palm of his hand and massaged it into her hair, letting it lather up before rinsing it out.

Reaching forward, Tate pulled the plug out of the tub and climbed out, wrapping a towel around his torso. Padding back to the bath, leaving wet footprints on the wooden floor, he helped Violet out and swathed her in a fluffy white towel like a baby. Violet found herself wishing she could slip away down the drain like the bubbles and bath water.

After drying herself off, Violet shuffled into her bedroom with her owl-patterned flannel pyjamas. They were her comfort pyjamas; flashbacks of her binge eating her feelings whilst wearing them played at the back of her mind. Swallowing, she clambered into bed, shortly followed by Tate. Shuffling down under her sheets, she turned on her side, allowing Tate to tuck his knees behind hers and drape an arm around her waist.

"You're the little spoon," he whispered in her ear, making her laugh. "I'm the big spoon." His sing-song voice made her smile. It felt like an eternity since she had smiled.

"I'm sorry, Tate," she began speaking until Tate hushed her.  
"Sleep," he ordered softly, humming lullabies into her ear. Violet closed her eyes and breathed in his smell.

"_Hush, hush, time to be sleeping,_" he sang softly. "_Hush, hush, dreams come a-creeping. Dreams of peace and freedom, so smile in your sleep, bonny baby._"

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**OKAY so I totally got carried away with writing about cute things I wish Tate would do for me. Another filler chapter (I'm sorry) but I don't want to rush this story like I have a habit of doing.  
I hope you are all well and I'm sorry for disappearing. I'm back :)**


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